from Metazen, 5/14/13

You like pictures sent by your best friend. He sent Dick Butkus, snarling in his black Bears jersey, number fifty-one. It’s been awhile since you’ve had a funny dick picture. It made you laugh. He also sent you pictures of his hoodie and you pretended you are with it. He didn’t send his handsome face, just the hoodie, so you would imagine yourself wearing it, being inside it.

One time a drug dealer sent you a picture of his penis with a line of hillbilly heroin on the shaft. You were tempted, but he was wearing a cowboy hat and you were really just not into that. Maybe if it had been MDMA and he had been in some sort of Candy Raver getup, you know, with the fluorescent plastic beads and clad in a child’s backpack full of toys, it might have been different. At the time, you didn’t have the Dick Butkus pic to send back in reply, so you sent him someone else’s penis. It seemed logical, very logical.

You have a picture of wicker porch chairs you sent back to a small Irishman. You told him you already had Paddy O’Furniture and you’ll never go back there again. He hadn’t see that coming… neither did you, actually. You surprised yourself sometimes.

There is a motel down the road, a Day’s Inn, the Irishman said. You could meet him there when he got off his bartender job. He said the rates are pretty reasonable, though they didn’t leave those little mints on your pillow and the coffee is only good in the lobby. Oh, and he thought there was a discount for tall, dark and handsome pilots. He said he left the front desk people little plastic wings that they gave little kids, you know, the first time flyers. Women go crazy for that stuff. At least they do at the Days Inn. Also, the rooms had these big blue chairs, very comfortable.

“What do you say to calling in sick tomorrow?” he texted. “Continental Breakfast is on him,.

You’re once again sorry that you changed your relationship status from “in one” to “single” last week, but he’s going to have to do better than going with something he’s obviously done with women every single fucking time. You don’t have a picture to text him back with. Instead you text, you’re not all that impressed and that he must have a Ph. D. in Douchebaggery. Free. No schooling required. His texts qualified him for that degree, you wrote.

You decide to take a walk to the gym, clear your head of all the images of cum shots and perfectly manicured scrotums, though at first you did find that attention to detail vaguely and strangely thoughtful. You wonder how it is possible that you’ve received five different dick picks in the past two weeks. You take out your smart phone and calculate that you’re averaging .357 penises a day. You wonder how many of these guys must screw up and send one to a wrong number. You wish you were the wrong number and you were someone else, with enough self-respect to call the cops and file an indecent exposure charge. You know the cops would just have a big laugh over that after you left.

Earlier, you stood in the mirror and practiced the dirty look you planned to use later in the day. You try it when you pass the homeless man who always cat calls you and you instantly feel bad. All you can see is his pitiful little Styrofoam cup, but you imagine a hard-on poking his pants as you shamefully toss all the bills left in your pockets his way.

Then on the treadmill, the phone vibrates. You don’t want to open it, but after all, it’s never stopped you before. You admit, when there is a car accident on the highway with a white sheet you look to see if there is anything else more specific: a broken windshield or blood on the pavement. You expect the image to stop you in your tracks, but instead it’s your best friend sending you a picture of roses and a cup of coffee. With his soft slender fingers he texts, “well?” and you send him back the picture of his dick, the one of Dick Butkus. You dial his number. You tell him, “yes”.